


Bound Into the Fire

by TaraLaurel1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Friendship, Hurt John, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Suspense, The Empty Hearse Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraLaurel1/pseuds/TaraLaurel1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slight AU Tag to TEH. "John sometimes compared Sherlock Holmes to the flaming beast in his mind...Not such a bad way to go, John mused. Being consumed by Sherlock. Dying in his fire. No. This was different. He was burning alive. Not figuratively. Not some flowery metaphor. Burning." The Empty Hearse spoilers. There was no two minute stay of execution. "Amazing how fire exposes our priorities."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fire and Ice

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I wrote this literally right after watching the episode. Title comes from the book of Daniel and the story of the fiery furnace (no, I'm not comparing Sherlock to Jesus - I think that would raise some serious questions and counseling sessions) A short beginning to a little something that I think a lot of people will probably be writing, if the gifs on Tumblr are any indication. I know this first chapter is tragically small, but I thought it was a good stopping point. (Plus it's a bit cliffy and I can't get enough of ending updates on a cliffhanger!) Next chapter is longer and from Sherlock's POV. This is John's POV. It's short and vague, because he wouldn't be thinking too clearly in this moment. Also, I'm not a member of the fire brigade nor am I an arsonist or doctor or any other fire savvy individual. Please excuse any errors.

_**Some say the world will end in fire,** _   
_**Some say in ice.** _   
_**From what I've tasted of desire** _   
_**I hold with those who favor fire.** _

_**\- excerpt from "Fire and Ice" by Robert Frost** _

_"Amazing how fire exposes our priorities."_

As soon as the flames began their hungry descent upon the cage surrounding him, John knew what was happening. Even the drug, which fought just as hard to paralyze his mind as it did his body, couldn't hold the truth at bay.

He was going to burn.

_"Burn the heart out of you."_

Amazing how everything in his life seemed to come down to this raw, raging substance.

How he accidentally set his sister's hair aflame with a fire cracker one New Year's eve. How his parents had burned to death, still strapped in their car, while a helpless teenage John Watson watched, hands holding him back from the blaze. It was a bomb that sent their vehicles flying in Afghanistan as a firefight broke out around them. The flames were too bright, too hot. He didn't see the insurgent until it was too late. He had been pulling a comrade from the fire's grasp when the bullet burned through his shoulder.

Meeting Sherlock. Of course, there had been no fire then. Not tangible anyway.

John sometimes compared Sherlock Holmes to the flaming beast in his mind. Beautiful, yet dangerous. Wild, unbridled. Passion and fury. Single minded. Selfish. Alluring and amazing, but destructive and deadly. Powerful. Temperamental. Not easily extinguished. You're eyes are drawn to it, but sometimes it shines so hot and bright you have to turn away. Something primitive, savage, yet elegant and intelligent. Simple and complex. It doesn't distinguish between friend or foe, it doesn't feel at all. All could fall prey to fire's whim, as all could fall prey to Sherlock's sight. Prone to lashing out. Quickly kindled and raging, and then suddenly smoldering.

If Mycroft was the Iceman, then Sherlock was surely fire. And John knew which he would choose to die by.

Like a moth, John had returned to Sherlock. He had been on his way to 221B, to confront the not-dead man, when he had been attacked. That was the flame that was Sherlock for you. You went around the detective, well, you were bound to get burned one way or another. And it wasn't always by his scorching tongue.

 _Not such a bad way to go,_  John mused. Being consumed by Sherlock. Dying in his fire.

_No._

This was different. He was burning alive. Not figuratively. Not some flowery metaphor.

 _Burning_.

It wasn't his heart that was burning though, as the feeling of flames licking his skin brought John back to the present.

_Fire. Pain. Screaming. Children screaming. A girl._

He needed to help her. He needed to break free and save her from the fire.

He jerked his body again, still to no avail. It was almost worse than being strapped down. It wasn't ropes or bindings holding him. His own body was fighting against itself.

Another shout.

_Familiar. Sherlock?_

And then a woman's shriek. Crying out. A name. His name.

_Mary!_

_Oh go - Sherlock! Mary!_

Where they in the fire too with the little girl? He had to get to them. Had to save them.

He twisted and felt the fire wrap around his leg.

_No. They're not in the fire. I am. I'm on fire._

"Help!"

The single word stole with it more energy and suffering than John could have imagined.

He closed his eyes, trying to detach himself from the horror at hand, slipping into the clinical part of his mind.

_Burns inflict immediate and intense pain through stimulation of the nociceptors - the pain nerves in the skin. Burns also trigger a rapid inflammatory response, which boosts sensitivity to pain in the injured tissues and surrounding areas. Fantastic. Third degree burns destroy superficial nerves, lessening the pain. But it's like comparing being crushed by an elephant or a small house. Still hurts like hell. No. Stop. Back to business. What else about fire? Sometimes adrenaline can block out the pain at first. Nope. Not this time. Can definitely feel that. Sweet Je - no. No. Focus. Breathe. No. Don't breathe. Idiot._

His inner voice slipped into Sherlock's at that.

_The most common cause of death due to fire is inhalation of toxic gases. Think. What were they?_

His mind was slipping. It hurt too much. He wanted to scream. Or maybe he was doing so already. He wasn't sure.

_Right. Gases. Carbon monoxide. Carbon dioxide. Hydrogen cyanide._

_Lovely._

_Those, added with the lack of oxy -_

_Yupp. There it is. Headache. Dizziness. Won't be long now._

His skull felt like it was splitting open. It had already been buzzing from the mystery drug and whirling and pounding from whatever he had hit his head against in the dark.

The flames danced around him, on top of him, above him, everywhere. Fading in and out. Or was that his vision?

What was he supposed to be doing?

 _Breathing. Right. No. Not breathing. Breathing is boring. No. Shut up, Sherlock. Breathe. No. Don't breathe. Gases. Smoke. Don't breathe. Good. I can't do that anyway_.

A cracking cough tore through his entire being, ripping away at his throat.

_Is my throat on fire too? Am I burning from the inside now? Why can't I see? It was so bright before? So -_

The darkness drank John in and swallowed him whole, leaving John Watson limp and unconscious among the angry flames.


	2. Dragon In My Soul

_Fire,_   
_It burns in all of us,_   
_It burns deep in my soul,_

_I fell it when I'm told no,_   
_Fire,_   
_or you would not under stand,_   
_That you are too young,_

_Flame brakes,_   
_out like wild fire,_

_I look at the world in away that most adults are blind to,_   
_I sit in my corner,_   
_day,_   
_night,_   
_hoping._   
_Hoping that I will be free,_   
_free from my age,_

_Cinders start to flame,_

_I look at the earth,_   
_poisoned,_   
_Fire,_   
_poisoned by the adults,_   
_Fire,_   
_The government is a place that the idiots go,_   
_Fire,_   
_to control us,_

_Fire burns deep,_

_They make bad decisions,_   
_Fire_   
_Pass laws that make no sense,_   
_Fire_   
_but we have to listen,_   
_Fire_   
_we have to do,_

_Then the fire burns,_

_My soul is ablaze,_   
_Anger,_   
_Hate,_   
_Sadness,_

_Fire,_

_I understand what you are saying,_   
_That's why I argue,_   
_Fire,_   
_louder,_   
_Fire,_   
_Until I am yelling,_   
_Until the fire is flaming out of my mouth,_   
_Coming from my lungs,_

_My soul is on fire,_   
_Anger,_   
_hate,_   
_sadness,_

_Dragon In My Soul by Shadrach Knight_

As soon as Sherlock saw the flames devouring the pyre, the cage, the detective knew what horror was happening.

John was going to burn.

_"Burn the heart out of you."_

Amazing how everything in his life seemed to come down to this raw, raging substance.

How he purposefully set his brother's hair aflame with a chemical compound. How one of his experiments had exploded when he was a teenager, singeing his eyebrows and burning half of the lab down. The drugs he had turned to after his boredom nearly burnt down an entire building with people inside it. The substance was like fire itself, coursing hotly through his veins.

Meeting John. Of course, there had been no fire then. Not tangible anyway.

Sherlock Holmes oftentimes compared himself to the flaming beat in his mind. Wild, unbridled. Passion and fury. Single minded. Selfish. Destructive. Deadly. Powerful. Temperamental. Not easily extinguished. How he felt others glancing away. Primitive, savage, yet intelligent. Simple and complex. He found himself not distinguishing between friend or foe, unfeeling as he swept up anyone who happened to be in his path. All could fall prey to fire's whim, to Sherlock's sight. Prone of lashing out. Quickly kindled and raging and then suddenly smoldering.

Sometimes he couldn't help any of it.

Sometimes he wasn't even fully aware of his burning effects.

His mind was also that inferno. Sparks would set out, synopsis snapping and cracking. He couldn't put the fire out. It needed to consume something, anything. Needed to be fed. If it wasn't, if tedium plagued Sherlock's mind for too long, it would lash out. Burning him and all others around him.

It was always there.

Scratching, scalding, just underneath the skin.

No one had ever been able to understand.

Not even Mycroft.

If Mycroft was the Ice Man, then Sherlock was surely fire.

The elder Holmes lacked the burning that nearly drove Sherlock mad. The constant fire pumping through his blood. He couldn't comprehend. Couldn't do anything to control it or help his younger brother.

There had only been one single solitary human being that was able to accomplish this.

John Watson.

The quiet, unassuming man had limped into Sherlock's life and somehow slipped through the flames and into his heart.

John was like a balm or a calming blanket. Something. Sherlock wasn't good at flowery metaphors.

The blaze inside of him never died, but John somehow helped Sherlock to contain it. The soldier even took some of the heat onto himself to spare Sherlock and others. But Sherlock could still burn his friend. And it wasn't always by his scorching tongue.

The life Sherlock lead was another kind of fire. Unpredictable danger waited behind every corner. Just by being near the detective, well, you were bound to get burned one way or another.

Sherlock cursed himself for coming back. For ever talking to Mike Stamford about flatmates. If John had never met Sherlock, he would be safe. Not in constant danger. Not currently being burned alive.

_Burning._

It wasn't just John that was burning though, as the pain in Sherlock's heated heart brought him back to the present.

_Girl. Screaming. Irrelevant._

He needed to help John. He needed to break through the blasted crowd and save him.

Sherlock shoved past bodies, barely aware he was shouting his friend's name as he sprinted forward.

_Another shriek. Woman's. John's name. Mary._

Mary was behind him.

"Help!"

The single word simultaneously granted him more energy and stole from him more suffering than Sherlock could have imagined.

He blinked, trying to detach himself from the horror at hand, slipping into the detective division of his mind.

_Bonfires. Bonfire. Bonefyre. Bonefire. Large, contained, outdoor fire. Used for warmth, celebrations, signals. Name derived from original purpose of burning bones._

_Not helping._

His inner voice slipped into John's at that.

_The most common cause of death due to fires is smoke or toxic gases inhalation._

Even if John's body was being mostly protected from the flames by the shape of the structure for now, it might be too late. The blaze would devour the wood first, thus trapping John further until the fire consumed him. Burned his bones.

_No. Stop. Think. Focus._

His mind was slipping as it sped through these thoughts at lightning speed. His heart hurt too much. Sentiment was clouding his brain. He wanted to scream. Or maybe he was doing so already. He wasn't sure.

_Think! Detach! Move! Help John._

He separated his mind and body. His hands tore away at the pyre while his head stayed distracted.

_Right. Toxic gases. Carbon monoxide. Carbon dioxide. Hydrogen cyanide._

_What if John has already stopped breathing?_

_No. Focus. Okay. Distraction. Other gases. Helium. Neon. Argon. Krypton. Radon. Xenon. Nitrogen. Fluorine. Keep going. Methane. Germane. Butane. Arsine. Diborane. Oxygen._

_Oxygen. John._

_Stop._

_States of matter. Solid. Liquid. Plasma. Gas. Van Helmont. Pressure. Volume. Number of particles. Temperature. Boyle. Macroscopic. Microscopic. Dalton._

His skull felt like it was splitting open. Or was that his heart?

The flames danced around him, everywhere. He could only vaguely feel the heat as he dismantled the structure.

A cracking cough tore through the noise, ripping away at Sherlock's very being. It was the sound of his friend choking. Of John dying.


	3. Everyone's Tasting Fire

_Catching fire in my throat_   
_As I leave this place_   
_The bitter taste of it stings my words_   
_But then everyone's tasting fire_   
_And higher_   
_And higher we go_   
_We learn as we go_   
_The bitter taste of it stings our words_   
_Everyone's tasting fire_   
_And higher_   
_And higher we go_   
_We learn as we go_   
_The bitter taste of it stings our words_   
_Everyone's tasting fire_   
_And there's no sympathy_   
_Cause we're all_   
_In the same place_   
_Same place_   
_Everyone's tasting fire_   
_And higher_   
_And higher we go_   
_We learn as we go_   
_Everyone's tasting fire_   
_No water_   
_Coming to save our lives_   
_Like it was_   
_Almost perfect_   
_Before_   
_Everyone's tasting fire_   
_And higher_   
_And higher we go_   
_We learn as we go_   
_Everyone was tasting fire_   
_And higher_   
_And higher we went_   
_We learned as we went_   
_That everyone's tasting fire_   
_And higher_   
_And higher we go_   
_We learn as we go_   
_But if everyone's tasting fire_   
_Then who's gonna get the water?_   
_Everyone's tasting fire_   
_And higher_   
_Who's gonna get the water?_   
_Everyone's tasting fire_   
_And higher_   
_And higher_   
_And everyone's tasting fire_   
_But if everyone's tasting fire_   
_Then who's gonna get the water?_

 

_Everyone's Tasting Fire by Maya Hanson_

A cracking cough tore through the noise, ripping away at Sherlock's very being. It was the sound of his friend choking. Of John dying.

"John!"

Sherlock tossed a particularly heavy scrap of lumber aside, finally finding his friend through the hole. He didn't hesitate before leaning into the flames and clutching the no longer conscious man.

Dragging the doctor out of the bonfire and to safety, Sherlock nearly tore the coat right off the limp man. The jacket was now aflame and Sherlock cast it back toward the blaze. He was working his own coat off when he noted Mary already had hers at the ready. They quickly beat out the blaze that was terrifyingly trailing up John's leg and Sherlock used his scarf to suffocate the fire that had managed to cling to his friend's neck and face.

Sherlock didn't even notice when Mary started flailing her coat against the detective's apparently ablaze arm. Finishing peeling off his coat now that all the flames had been snuffed out and Mary's jacket was near shambles and ash, Sherlock draped the fabric over John's body.

His gloved hand came against the man's uninjured cheek.

"John?"

He could hear Mary echoing him, tears on her tongue. The woman moved forward, her arm extending past Sherlock and toward her lover. Sherlock watched as delicate fingers fumbled against the uninjured side of John's neck.

"He's got a pulse," she sighed with relief but still bend forward, head tilting toward John's lips. "Sherlock, he's not breathing!"

_Breathing._

_"Breathing's boring."_

_No._ Breathing was certainly not boring. Not when it was John Watson who was the one breathing.

Or, as of right then, not.

_John. Not breathing. Why can't I think? Sentiment! Stupid!_

_"Will caring about them help save them?"_

This was why he turned it off. All of it off. When you care you end up losing. You get hurt.

_Focus! CPR? Right? How many breaths? John's the doctor, not me!_

_Doctor. Nurse. Mary. Mary!_

Sherlock watched as Mary Morstan began to breathe for John Watson.

That wasn't right. Not natural.  _John shouldn't need anyone to breathe for him._

Without moving his eyes from John's, Sherlock seized his phone and dialed the number without even thinking.

"Lestrade. Ambulance. Now."

The detective could prompt a much faster response time and Sherlock really didn't feel like dealing with some incompetent operator at the moment. He clipped off their location and situation with rapid fire speed, keeping his voice free of emotion. Like a verbal text message. Clear. Distinct. Detached.

"Oh Jes – John." He vaguely heard Greg cursing and shouting at someone. "It's on the way, Sherlock. Just – uh – hang tight. It'll be alright."

"Of course it will be alright," Sherlock snapped abruptly.

_John will be alright._

The silent vow echoed between both men's minds.

Lestrade was surprised when Sherlock didn't immediately hang up on him after barking his orders.

_Shock._

That was an odd thought. Sherlock in shock. But Greg knew to never be truly surprised when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

"He's still not breathing!"

Lestrade could hear an unfamiliar voice in the near distance on the other end of the line.

"Sherlock! I've lost his pulse!"

Greg launched from his chair as the obvious sounds of a mobile dropping greeted his ears. The DCI grabbed his coat, abandoning his attempt at cooking himself dinner for once.

Sherlock let the phone slip through his fingers as he listened to the nurse. He never listened to anyone. But this was about John's life. And it was Mary. If John trusted her, Sherlock had to too.

"His heart's stopped," Mary swallowed and swiped at her eyes, gasping for breath. "I have to – I have to do – chest –"

Breathing for John for so long, combined with the chase and emotional stress had visibly taken its toll. She lifted her hands to John's chest until Sherlock caught her wrist.

"Let me."

His voice was soft, yet strong, and Mary relented.

The nurse kept a clinical eye on Sherlock's movements and John's body. When it was her turn, she leaned in to give John yet another kiss of life.

"Come  _on_ , John!" Sherlock commanded his blogger, as if the man was lagging behind in a criminal chase.

"It's not working," Mary gasped for her own air. "Where's the bloody ambulance? John, don't do this. Please."

The strong nurse and sorrowful fiancé were battling for control. It was a power play of similar sorts that Sherlock had just experienced while amidst the flames.

"You're a nurse, Mary," Sherlock spoke without condescending, but command, in his tone, helping the woman win her internal war. "Think like a nurse."

Mary's watery glance caught Sherlock's serious gaze and he watched as she understood and swallowed resolutely, her eyes becoming fiercely focused.

"Straddle him."

"What?"

"Just do it!" Mary shouted firmly. "Now."

Sherlock swung his leg over John's thighs, careful to avoid his injured limb. Straddling the man, Sherlock continued compressions.

Another breath of life from Mary, more thrusts from Sherlock.

"John Watson, you are a solider and a doctor and are not allowed to die. Not here. Not like this." Sherlock spoke in a decisive tone as he pushed down. "Not when I just came back. Not after all I did to keep you alive. Not when you're going to get married. Now, get that heart beating and  _breathe!"_

Instead of both hands, Sherlock's fist came down hard on John's abdomen at that last word. At that, the man underneath him arched and coughed suddenly and raggedly. John was still gasping and sputtering when Mary took his face in her hands and kissed him passionately, yet briefly.

"Don't you dare do that to me again!" She reprimanded with a laugh.

"Sher – lock?" John rasped, his eyes wandering wearily from his future wife to his flatmate. "Why are you – on top of me? Mary's my fiancé, she's – right here. People will talk."

"You're a medical man, John. Really. I was under Mary's instruction as it was merely to provide myself with a better –"

"Oh, shut up you two," Mary shook her head.

Sherlock smiled and repositioned himself on the grass on John's side.

"At least I did not kiss you upon your waking," Sherlock noted.

"People would've definitely talked," John chuckled and wheezed.

Mary made quick work of checking John's vitals and instructing Sherlock on caring for John's burns.

"Pupils dialated," Mary whispered, "how are you feeling?

John knew that tone and was aware she wasn't talking about the burns as she stared into his unfocused eyes.

"Concussion," John swallowed thickly. "Minor. Disorientation. Dizziness."

"Any memory loss?" Mary prompted.

"Yeah," John cracked a smile. "And you are?"

"Complete stranger," Mary replied readily. "Never gonna see me again after this."

"Good," John smirked and then frowned. "Back up."

Mary and Sherlock both saw the reason for the man's sudden cracked command in his face that was now turning colors and promptly pushed him on his side. The doctor's retching made both nurse and detective internally wince. John's throat was already raw. If the pained noises were any indication, the convulsions were far more agonizing than they could imagine.

Once he was finished, Mary wiped his mouth as Sherlock sat him up against his shoulder.

"What are - how did you –?"

"Facial burn," Sherlock answered John flippantly. "You need to sit up."

"Yes, I know  _why._ How did you know? I thought I was the doctor." John chuckled through a cough.

"Yes, but I'm the detective who tends to start fires with my experiments. I've done the research. Now, do please stop talking. You sound like an elderly chain smoker. It's quite irritating."

_Please stop talking. Rest your voice. Rest. Please. Just be okay._


	4. Out of the Fire

_Hidden is the flame that burns,_   
_outward the inward turns;_   
_What was lost and uncreated,_   
_becomes a pillar, strong and plated._

_Glowing toward the upward sky,_   
_in the journey to reach on high;_   
_Finding what tempers the steel that survives,_   
_is the mystery in strengthening our lives._

_In the fire of life we create,_   
_building on a twist of fate;_   
_When the final days of living call,_   
_our new life constructed will not fall._

_Life was taken to new heights,_   
_out of darkness of days and darkness of nights;_   
_The goal was reached, the light was found,_   
_finally the new life will abound._

_Out of the Fire, Into the Sky by Bill King_

"Don't just stand around like the idiots that you are!" Sherlock suddenly addressed their audience. "Someone get cool water."

"We'll need compresses," Mary added. "Bandaging, dressings, anything if anyone can find some."

A few people hurried in opposite directions while a young girl hesitantly approached the trio. She was struggling against her father's hold until she finally broke away. Sprinting forward, the girl with the funny hat –  _the screamer, Sherlock deduced_ – handed the detective a small water bottle from her jacket pocket.

"Here."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and took the gift, giving it promptly over to Mary. He tried to ignore John's hitched hiss at the feel of the liquid against his burns.

"Come along, Sally," the girl's father began pulling her away once more.

"So you started the fire?" Sherlock turned his head to the man.

"I – yes – but I didn't know. I swear."

"Oh, don't have a heart attack. The good doctor is currently out of commission and the nurse here is busy trying to save him. We really don't need another patient at the moment. I believe you." He bit back his deductions of the man to exactly  _why_ he believed him as time was of the essence. "I want you to take the names and contact details of everyone here tonight. I want descriptions. Details. Who set up the bonfire? Was it left unattended? When and for how long? Any suspicious strangers. Everything. Do it.  _Now_."

The man thankfully didn't question his orders and ran off toward the crowd with his daughter firmly in his grasp.

A teenager and middle aged woman returned just then, both carrying collected water and scraps of cloth for compression.

"These were in the church," the recently widowed mother of three spoke as she handed over some bandaging and a first aid kit.

"I had one in the boot of my car," another mother approached a kit. "Kids, you know."

Mary offered their thanks when Sherlock didn't and the two made quick work of doing what they could for John with their limited supplies. The soldier kept a stiff lip, visibly holding back cries of pain and probably tears. The pair could also see how hard the doctor was clawing at consciousness as well. He had been lucid, but the concussion, poisoning and exhaustion were all fighting for claim over his mind. It wasn't long before his lids faltered and fell.

"Stay awake, John," Mary urged gently.

"John," Sherlock added when the man's eyelids wouldn't obey. "Open your eyes, John. Right now.  _Focus_."

"Look at me," Mary commanded considerably calmly. "Just keep looking at one of us. Alright?"

"Guess I'll – need a – cane again." John huffed.

"Yes. Congratulations. You have succeeded in getting a non-psychosomatic leg injury. I do hope that wasn't a personal life goal of yours.

"Make for rubbish wedding photos," John snorted.

"You have to ask me first before there can be a wedding," Mary reminded him playfully.

"Ask you to marry me?" John scoffed sarcastically. "But you're a stranger. I don't know you."

"You didn't know me and you killed a man to save my life," Sherlock reasoned, actually allowing himself to play along in the couple's game.

"And I did just save your life," Mary added.

" _We_ ," Sherlock corrected. "We saved your life."

"Well I'm bloody well not marrying the both of you," John shook his head and grimaced at the flare of discomfort from the action.

"Fine," Mary nodded, a wry smile creeping into the corners of her lips, "congratulations, Sherlock."

"No, wait, what?" John spoke as Sherlock's head snapped toward her.

"John, I think you should ask her now before something strange happens that will definitely make people talk," Sherlock smirked.

"Ask her?" John coughed. "I don't even have the ring with me."

"Yes you do," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You carry it everywhere. Front left pocket of your trousers."

John glared up at his flatmate before smiling and snorting.

"So, this is how I'm gonna propose? Half my body burned and you holding me?"

"You will never forget it," Sherlock teased.

John began to squirm, attempting to reach for his pocket, and groaned as his whole body throbbed.

"Need – a little – help."

After all the time John had reached into Sherlock's pockets for his phone or keys or wallet – or a victim's ear that one time – it almost gave the blogger a sliver of satisfaction when the detective huffed and began fishing for the small box in his jeans. Sherlock retrieved it, thankfully not stolen or damaged in the night's events, and placed it in John's somewhat shaking hand.

"Right," John cleared his throat – twice. "Well, then. Hm. Mary." He nodded to himself and paused. "I honestly practiced this 100 times and every time I actually try I don't know what to say. Or my friend comes back from the dead to interrupt me."

"Sorry," Sherlock whispered shortly,

"Mary, we – it – we haven't been together long, but – being with you – you make me so happy. You make me laugh. You were there for me when –" he cut himself off, not desiring to mention those many morbid months in front of the man responsible for them. "You're amazing, Mary. The best woman that I've ever known. And the only woman I can see spending the rest of my life with. I promise I will spend the rest of my life being everything I can for you. Loving you."

"Well, then, you bloody well better not die before we get you to hospital," Mary laughed. "Not much of a promise, then is it?"

"That's it," John nodded. "You caught me."

"Oh, you two are ridiculous," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh, be quiet Sherlock and let me say yes," Mary grinned at the detective and then at John. "Yes. Of course. I love you."

The pair kissed, Mary leaning over to catch John's mouth while the man was still being partially cradled by Sherlock. Once again the detective let his eyes go in a circle.

"Oh please. Of course she was going to say yes, John. She'd already introduced herself to Mrs. Hudson as your fiancé. Please don't tell me your arranged this little life or death experience to win her over when it was already done."

"Uh, no," John breathed. "Definitely not. And at least I don't take a bloody poison in a pill to prove I'm clever."

"It wasn't the poison," Sherlock straightened. "I chose correctly. As always."

"You guessed and you still don't know which one it was." John argued.

"Actually, I do." Sherlock paused and was suddenly serious. "I ran lab tests after the case. I, I was – wrong. You did, in fact, save my life."

"And now you saved mine."

"We," Mary corrected, playfully echoing Sherlock from earlier.

"I must've really nearly died if Sherlock Holmes is telling me he was wrong." John mused, hiding a moan.

"Yes, and you will not being do so again."


	5. Scars

_I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut_   
_My weakness is that I care too much_   
_And my scars remind me that the past is real_   
_I tear my heart open just to feel_

_\- Scars by Papa Roach_

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked cautiously as he approached the hospital bed.

John had hung on until the paramedics had finally arrived, losing consciousness only after being loaded into the back of the ambulance. He had only recently rejoined the realm of consciousness once more. Mary had already been to see her newly awakened fiance and now it was Sherlock's turn. He had wanted to rush in to the room upon hearing of his friend's waking, but instead elected to wait. Mary had protested, but Sherlock insisted. John would want to see her. And he could see how much she deeply desired to be with John. They needed their moment of privacy.

But that was only part of the reason he had hesitated.

There were so many others.

John was hurt. Not fatal. But hurt. John was rarely hurt. Not like this. Could he handle seeing his friend in such a state? It would be different now, with the adrenaline worn off. John had needed him to focus last night. He didn't have anything to focus on now to distract him from all this thoughts. His doubts.

Yes, his doubts.

Sherlock had waltzed back into John's life. John hadn't even been speaking to him. And yet, even when the doctor wasn't right at his side, within days of his return, he had put his friend in terrible danger. John had been safe for the past two years. Of course, Sherlock had been snipping away at Moriarty's web to ensure that, but John didn't know that. The danger that Sherlock had been involving himself in never touched John Watson. And then all it took was the detective coming back for something like this to happen.

If John had been having difficulty forgiving Sherlock before, how was he ever going to do so now?

He was still warring with himself when Mary emerged from the room, a soft smile spreading across her face.

"Your turn," she smirked. "Give you two some privacy, just hope it's not for as much kissing as we just did," she winked but then paused when Sherlock didn't move or speak.

Sighing, the woman stood directly in front of the detective.

"You saved his life," she said firmly.

"We," Sherlock corrected, as they had done to each other the night before.

"Yeah, in the end there it was all pretty much me," she teased and then turned serious. "But you did.  _You_. Without you I wouldn't have known where to look, or gotten around police barricades on a motorbike.  _You_ pulled him out of the fire, Sherlock."

"I put him there," he whispered so faintly, Mary was sure she wasn't meant to hear it.

"You, Mr. Center-of-the-Universe, are not responsible for everyone and everything that happens," Mary crossed her arms. "Now, unless you physically put him in the bonfire, which you didn't, this isn't your fault."

Still, Sherlock was stiff.

"He was coming to see you, you know," Mary lifted her brow. "He wanted to talk to you. Sort things out. 'Course, I convinced him to, but still. I told you I'd bring him 'round. But he didn't need me to do it. I just pushed him to it a little faster than he would've done himself. He was always going to come around, Sherlock. Still will."

She paused and sighed when the man didn't respond.

"If  _that's_ not enough, he was asking for you."

Sherlock's eyes snapped to meet Mary's.

"Yup," she answered the unspoken question behind his irises. "For you. After me, of course," she jested, cocking her head. "But he asked for you. So, you can go in there now, or I can drag you in there myself."

Sherlock straightened and then swallowed a breath. With a nod at Mary, Sherlock strode past her and into the room he had been so fearful of.

"Oh," Mary rolled her head back, "these two are going to be a lot of work."

Sherlock tentatively opened the door and slipped inside. The doctor and detective's eyes met and locked there for a moment before Sherlock lowered his gaze and crossed the room.

There was a tangible silence that filled the small space with unspoken words and apologies and sentiment.

"How are you feeling?"

_Are you alright? Please, be alright. Please, forgive me._

"Yeah, not bad," John nodded, "bit - smoked."

"Right," Sherlock tried to smile but found his face fall flat.

John was the stoic soldier. Always had been, always would be. Sherlock didn't need to read the chart to catalogue his friend's injuries.

_Cyanide poisoning. Cracked rib from CPR. Lacerations on neck, head and face. First, second and third degree burns -_

"Last night," John began, "who did that? And why did they target  _me_?"

"I don't know," Sherlock ground out the words almost painfully.

_I don't know. I usually love not knowing. A game to play. A mystery to solve. But not when it comes to you, John. Not your safety. Your life. I don't know. But I won't stop until I find out._

"Is it someone trying to get to you  _through_ me?"

And there it was. John wasn't stupid.

_My fault._

"I don't know," Sherlock repeated, lowering his head.

There was a weighted paused.

"John - I'm - I'm sorry."

The sincerity in the self-proclaimed sociopath's voice caused John to snap his eyes up to meet Sherlock's.

"This - what happened to you - was my fault," he sighed. "If I hadn't come back -"

"Sherlock," John shook his head, "shut up. Just, shut up. You can apologize for leaving me in the bloody dark for two years while I thought you were dead. You can apologize for being an absolute arse by showing up in the middle of dinner and deciding  _that_ was somehow the best way to tell me you're alive. You, Sherlock, can apologize for a lot of things,  _should_ apologize for a lot of things. But not this. I don't care if it happened because you came back, because - you came back."

_Damn it, I missed you, Sherlock. I'd take a thousand burning bonfires if it meant you being alive and here._

Both men averted each other gazes then. Sherlock dutifully staring at the floor and John's eyes wandering. He shifted in the bed in the silence and immediately regretted it, hissing at the sharp and shooting pain that seared through his leg.

The limb had received the worst of the the effects of the fire. He would definitely need that cane again, but not forever. There would be evidence left over, of course. The majority of his face would heal, but there still would be new scars now to decorate his already war battered body there too.

John Watson was a scarred man. From physical bullet and fire wounds, to the less noticeable, more intimate injuries. His parents. Harry.

Sherlock.

But, just as his bullet wound had slowly healed, so would all the others. His body would be forever marked with the evidence of the pain, but the pain itself wouldn't always be there.

And so it would be with Sherlock. John already knew he would forgive the bastard. He probably already did and was just being stubborn. Of course he did. His best friend was alive. That was all that mattered. Sure, his death, and resurrection, would leave scars.

But that was okay.

Because, in time, they would heal.

And the scars would remain. To remind John of how much he cared for Sherlock, and how much Sherlock had sacrificed for him.


End file.
